


Heroism and Other Shit

by ares3



Category: The Martian (2015), The Martian - All Media Types, The Martian - Andy Weir
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Gen, Humor, Log Entry Style, POV First Person, WIP, mark's ramblings, more to come - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-04-26 04:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4990240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ares3/pseuds/ares3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being stranded on Mars gives a guy a lot of time to think.</p><p>Nonlinear log entries from some of Mark's longer days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monolithic Statues

**LOG ENTRY: SOL 116**

I’ve been thinking a lot about heroes. I’m cringing after just that first sentence, but the first rule of combating isolation according to the SPL (Space Psychology League) is to write what you’re thinking about, so I thought I’d give them at least one entry that actually gets into the swirling netherworld of my lonely brain. Welcome to my twisted mind.

Anyways, I’ve been thinking about the definition of heroism. There are different types of heroes, of course. You’ve got your superheroes, your war heroes. Your jumped-onto-the-subway-tracks-to-save-a-little-old-lady heroes. Your Real Heroes who go out there every day and put out fires or teach kindergarteners to be our future. I’m not any of those, although I did once execute an amazing aerial stunt and catch a guy’s hotdog that went flying through the air when he tripped, so I’m pretty sure I’m his hero. (He hit the ground, but the hotdog didn’t, and that’s what’s important.) But I’m pretty sure the criterion for the sort of heroism that is universally considered to be and remembered as true heroism involves Sacrifice for the Greater Good.

Question is, how much sacrifice is Heroic Sacrifice, because I am a-okay with it not requiring death.

And this isn’t to say I particularly WANT to be a hero, I’m not jonesing for fame. Talk to twelve year old me for that, the me who wanted to be a movie star and got my big break in a commercial where I had to look enthralled by Maytag washing machines. (…Something I’d successfully hidden from my crew up until the minute they read these logs. I can hear Martinez now—“So your machine fetish started at an early age, huh, Watney?”) And yeah, okay, there’s a certain level of public attention that comes with being an astronaut. Doing the ad for Under Armour was pretty cool. And not to toot my own horn but astronauts are fucking amazing. I know the Apollo 11 guys are my heroes. But this isn’t about what I came to Mars hoping for, it’s about what’s happening now that I’m stuck here.

I’m thinking about heroes because when you’ve been stranded on a desert (noun and adjective) planet for 110 sols, one of the things you seem to find your mind turning to most often is home. Crazy, right? You think about what’s going on at home, and you think about if they miss you there.

And, with my Totally Objective Anthropologist hat on, one of the things I feel relatively safe in assuming is going on back on planet Earth is the hero-ification of little old me. Because look, right away astronauts have the Greater Good thing going for them, the (*NASA PR team voice* MINIMAL) risk to their lives in the pursuit of science and human advancement. I’m cool with that level of heroism, cool with being a picture in a science textbook for some STEM elementary schools. But then you go and take one of your astronauts and _leave him on Mars for four years_ and the Sacrifice levels rise exponentially. Leave him on Mars till Mars kills him dead and Sacrifice levels are off the charts.

(Speaking of charts, Heroism is generally a simple linear equation between Greater Good and Sacrifice. But what happens if Sacrifice levels are way higher than Greater Good levels? I mean, I am getting way more experiments done than were ever planned for Ares 3 and I did grow motherfucking potatoes on motherfucking Mars, but there are only so many soil samples you can take within 35 kilometers of the Hab and call me vain but I value my life over innovations in space farming, so it’s like 1002 sac (Sacrifice) per 337 gg (Greater Good) at this point. How many hps (Hero Points) am I at then? I’ll do the math later.)

Point is, I’m fairly certain there are at least three monolithic statues of my heroic likeness back on Earth, and that’s freaking me the fuck out because it feels like a portent of my death. I should tell NASA to halt any monolithic statue construction.

Although, actually, you know what. If high school English taught me anything, it was the Hero’s Journey, and if the Hero’s Journey taught me anything, it was that…maybe?...the hero only becomes a Hero at the end of the journey. And they can live. They come back from the journey with enlightenment and bestow upon the common folks a boon from the gods. My boon shall be Martian potatoes from the Martian potato gods.

Yeah, okay. Fuck sacrificing my life, heroes are only heroes if they actually succeed at their heroic mission. So now, my two awesome options are: 1) survive, return to Earth as a Hero or 2) die on Mars and become a legend. The legend of Mark Watney, Martian ghost.

3) Reject all of the above, use RTG radiation to become a superhero. The jumpsuits we wear are spandex-tastic enough, and a bit of Hab canvas would make an excellent cape.

 

* * *

 

 **[00:17] WATNEY:** Please forward note to any NASA or government private contractors: I’m flattered but monolithic statues of me are not necessary.

 **[00:31] JPL:** We can schedule a psych consultation via Pathfinder.

 **[00:42] WATNEY:** Joking!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throughout the ~space~ of a week I 1) read the book, 2) saw the movie, 3) read a ton of fic, 4) thought over and over that I want to create more of this, 5) finally did in the span of an hour. More will come as I think of it, and there'll probably be more than one little entry per chapter so it doesn't get annoying. I was just eager to get this first one out there.  
> Prompts are welcome!  
> Also, this is...literally my first fanfic, so comments of any kind would be helpful and appreciated!


	2. Life on Mars?

**LOG ENTRY: SOL 464**

I am seriously considering telling NASA I found life on Mars.

I mean, I’ve seen more of this planet than any other human in existence, from a more up close and personal view than any satellite or probe. I could totally be the one to have a First Encounter. It’s reasonable.

And Mawrth Vallis would be a great place for it. The river that ran through here millions of years ago could have sustained tiny Martian zooplankton. (The rover sent back in 2020 didn’t find any evidence of ancient life but I am way more awesome than an outdated R2D2.)

Although, if I were to start a conspiracy about Martian life, it’d be about something way cooler than zooplankton. It’d be about algae.

Space algae!

What, I’m a botanist.

Anyway, I thought it out and my Martian algae would have evolved into terrestrial plants that flourish on the clay of Mawrth Vallis. Not unreasonable— back on Earth the terrestrial Embrophyta emerged from Charophyta, a division of freshwater green algae. Everything else about it is unreasonable, but.

Now depending on how that miraculous news is received, I could then go on and announce how the algae uses macro-flagella to swarm together into a hive-minded Mega Algae Conglomerate in the shape of Barbarella, Queen of the Galaxy.

What, I’m a botanist with imagination.

NASA wouldn’t believe me for a second, but think of the conspiracy it’d spark with the media and X-Files types. According to Venkat Kapoor, my transmissions are being broadcast all over the world. Even if Kapoor reprimanded me and I immediately recanted, the seed (ha) would be out there to germinate (haha!) in the minds of those who Want To Believe. Think about it. I'm in the very unique position of being able to prank the whole world. Jane Fonda algae on Mars.

The truth is out there!

  

**LOG ENTRY: Sol 464 (2)**

I think I just miss plants.

Cue Martinez, Beck, and Johanssen harmonizing a chorus of “Neeeerd!”

 

* * *

 

**LOG ENTRY: SOL 45**

Do you know how little of Disco Inferno you need to change to make it represent my horrifying time making water? 

 

> To my surprise, forty nine point eight degrees high,
> 
> People getting mad y’all, getting down in the Hab
> 
> Watney is screaming, out of control
> 
> It was so entertaining when the Hab started to explode
> 
> I heard somebody say
> 
>  
> 
> (Burn baby burn) Water inferno!
> 
> (Burn baby burn) Burn hydrogen down
> 
> (Burn baby burn) Water inferno!
> 
> (Burn baby burn) Burn hydrogen down
> 
>  
> 
> Satisfaction came in a chain reaction
> 
> (Burnin’)
> 
> I couldn't get enough, till I had to self-destruct
> 
> The heat was on, rising to the top
> 
> Everything going strong, and that’s when my spark got too hot
> 
> I heard somebody say
> 
>  
> 
> (Burn baby burn) Water inferno!
> 
> (Burn baby burn) Burn hydrogen down y'all
> 
> (Burn baby burn) Water inferno!
> 
> (Burn baby burn) Burn hydrogen down
> 
>   

Now you do.

 

  **LOG ENTRY: SOL 45 (2)**

Turns out butchering disco music is a good distraction from that time I was a dumbass and blew myself up. 

 

> Young man, there’s no need to feel down
> 
> I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground.
> 
> I said, young man, ’cause you’re in a new town
> 
> There’s no need! To! Be! Unhappy!
> 
>  
> 
> Young man, there’s a place you can find
> 
> I said, young man, when your crew leaves you behind.
> 
> You can stay here, and I’m sure you won’t mind
> 
> All the ways! To! Fu-cking go blind!
> 
>  
> 
> Unh! Unh! Unh! Unh! Unh!
> 
> It sucks to survive on M.A.R.S.!
> 
> It sucks to survive on M.A.R.S.!

 

The R's a bitch to make with your arms. I get it with a mostly straight left arm and curved hand meeting a curved right hand and a right elbow at about 75°. Problem solving!

 

**LOG ENTRY: SOL 45 (3)**

Is it still called the moonwalk if you do it on Mars?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment, Mark is lonely.


	3. Space Pirate's Downfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brace yourself for really shitty science and logic and a slightly angstier chapter

**LOG ENTRY: SOL 494**

So I have a loose tooth. I didn’t really notice it at first but it must be from when I banged my mouth against a fucking laptop the other day. What, I was tired. Do you think Mars is part of the tooth fairy’s bike route?

 

**LOG ENTRY: SOL 496**

You know what’s fucking hilarious? You know what really has me rolling on the pop-tent floor in absolute fucking hysterics?

I think I have scurvy.

Space pirate levels maximum!

Fuck.

I’ve reached this conclusion after weeks of alternately being confused by and trying to ignore what I now figure are symptoms. The one that did it was the shortness of breath. Because! I calmly figured that if I was having trouble breathing something must be wrong with the atmospheric regulator. The rover’s monitors said the atmosphere looked fine but my lungs didn’t believe it, so I whipped out my EVA suit faster than you can say ‘autoerotic asphyxiation’ to see if its air sensor said the same thing. It did, but fuck high tech gadgets made by NASA geniuses, my atmosphere tastes funny, send it back! I made an unscheduled stop about two hours into my driving time and squeezed through the trailer to give the atmospheric regulator a check-up. I even did an EVA to look at the AREC, but everything looked good, all systems operational, a-okay.

Which meant the problem was with me.

I guess this goes to show how negligent I’ve been with my own body. I could use a classic Dr. Beck lecture right about now. I thought four separate machines were lying to me before I considered my own health. And it was extra stupid because if something were wrong with the atmospheric regulator and killer levels of carbon dioxide were creeping into the rover, I wouldn’t experience the kind of tight-chested shortness of breath I am, I’d just get super sleepy and die. So. Top notch puzzle solving, me.

I’d been ignoring a lot of shit that I’d just figured was general discomfort. Legs tender and sore? You’ve been cooped up for a 3200-kilometer road trip! Scalp bleeding? You’ve been scratching it all day because ya nasty and haven’t bathed in a month! Gums inflamed? Gingivitis is a thing for stranded astronauts who don’t floss their teeth! Back when I was in touch with NASA they had me conducting weekly self-administered medical tests so they could get exciting new data on what prolonged exposure to Mars does to your average botanist (don’t do Mars, kids), but I kinda…stopped…those…the very day I fried Pathfinder. And reverted back to college-me, who once caught swine flu and thought he must just be hungover. For a week. I'm a botanist, not a doctor, Jim! But now that I’d acknowledged my fun new breathing problems, I thought a full check-up was probably in order.

Which meant like 15 minutes of taking the EVA suit right back off again. What? I think I’m allowed to complain today.

For the first time on the worst installment of _National Lampoon’s Vacation_ , I took all my clothes off. Cue Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On”. (Yes, Lewis has that on her data-stick.) Except it wasn’t as sexy as my ego would’ve liked it to be, because frankly, I look like shit.

I’m pretty skinny these days. The Watney potato fad diet will do that to you. But let’s not worry about that right now, or about the nasty layer of grime covering every inch of my skin. If the rescue plan goes okay on Sol 549, they’re gonna chuck me right back out of the airlock once they get a whiff of me. Anyways, what I found in my exam that’s really worrying me are the lesions. They look like bruises, but kind of too round and precise to be natural, unless I’ve unwittingly been getting sprayed with paintball shot. Like a rash of bruises, tender to touch, and more prevalent on my legs. Which happen to be swelling a bit. That could be because of all the sitting I’ve been doing, but I only actually drive for about four hours out of the sol. I get plenty of exercise hauling solar panels around, and I can stretch out in the bedroom. I’ve got to add the swelling to my list of mysterious symptoms.

Getting my jumpsuit back on made me realize how grimy that was, too. Laundry services on Mars get a 0/10 from me.

Time to check out my face, but wouldn’t you know it, the rover doesn’t actually have rearview mirrors. The atmosphere on Mars is so thin that sunlight is a bitch off reflective surfaces, so we prefer rearview cameras. So I used my GoPro to get some mug shots and uploaded the feed to a laptop. NASA’s probably gonna be pissed that I didn’t get video documentation of my entire exam, but NASA’s a perv and should get its porn from the Internet like the rest of the good citizens of America.

Anyways, results of my facial exam: Nasty gums, spongy and bloody, check. Pinprick bleeding on my scalp, nice. Lip I busted on that laptop four sols ago still open, wonderful. I knew all that already just from feeling it, but seeing it was harder to ignore. What really caught my eyes, though, were my eyes. The whites of my eyes could more aptly be called the yellows, and I’ve got a few broken blood vessels, too. And if I’m not mistaken, the insides of my eyelids are a bit paler than normal. But maybe that’s just because these tacky EVA suits get in the way of my Martian sunbathing.

So. It was tricky figuring out which symptoms were symptoms and which were just me complaining, so I decided to work backwards. It’s deduction, my dear Watson! There aren’t any bacteria on Mars to infect me except the ones I brought with me, and we’re all buds, they wouldn’t betray me like that. The whole crew got a clean bill of health before voluntarily riding explosions and radiation into space, so no viruses. Could be some genetic disease I was always gonna get, but that’s no fun so we can discard that.

It was really no puzzle—the most likely, and only, cause of my ailments is my diet. The potatoes are fine—they try to choke me with their horribleness with every bite I take, but they’re fine. And they’re only for calories, anyway. The most important part of my diet is all the little vitamins I’ve been horking.

And here is where I’m once again rolling on the floor laughing. I ran a quick inventory of my supply, and guess what’s missing?

Vitamin C.

My old friend vitamin C, which I stopped getting from dried fruit and fruit juice when I ran out of rations on Sol 366, and stopped getting from fucking vitamin C pills on Sol 449. When I left them. In the Hab. For no damn reason other than stupidity.

My mom is gonna kill me if I die on Mars because I didn’t pack well!

NASA supplies its astronauts with a buttload of vitamins. None of them are multivitamins because the cellulose and lactose filler used to give them bulk are unnecessary weight. I don’t know whose fucking job it was to determine the miniscule amount of extra weight multivitamins have over 20 separate bottles of individual vitamins and decide it was worth it in rocket fuel to ditch the horse pills, but I hope they get paid well. Or maybe they decided they didn’t want to put all their eggs in one basket in case a dumbass astronaut loses a bottle; I may not have vitamin C, but I sure got a lotta zinc!

Yeah, this one’s on me.

I can’t believe this. All my symptoms can be attributed to scurvy. I thought the fatigue and loss of appetite were just from getting depressingly used to a minimum-calorie diet, and maybe some of it is, but also—scurvy! That loose tooth I’ve got—scurvy! Busted lip that won’t heal—scurvy. The only thing that isn’t scurvy is the fact that I’m gassy enough to power the rover with a wind farm instead of solar panels. I _can_ blame the potatoes for that.

Well. That case is solved. Eat your heart out, WebMD.

Sigh.

I can comfort myself with the fact that scurvy is a slower death than a broken atmospheric regulator. In 53 sols Beck can help me do a keg stand with orange juice. Guy’s a pro at keg stands.

I can also comfort myself with two potatoes for my meal today. I’ve nearly used up the rest of my driving hours, and I don’t want to go overtime or I won’t get a full charge from my solar panels. So I’m done for the sol, and I am eating two potatoes, damnit. I deserve this feast.

This must be punishment for leading the immoral life of a space pirate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so...potatoes...are actually...pretty high in vitamin c. but not on mars, because i say so. 
> 
> i'm curious to know how well i handled something genuinely distressing to mark while also keeping his 'haha it's all fine!!' attitude, so comments would be well appreciated!
> 
> and thank you so much for all the lovely comments so far! they definitely get me excited to write. positive feedback...yesss....
> 
> prompts are still welcome!


	4. Better than Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from ares3watney.tumblr.com

**LOG ENTRY: MISSION DAY 688**

First off: !!!!!!!!!

I woke up from an oxy nap and guess what! I’m still on the Hermes! This beats every Christmas morning of my lifetime, and let me tell you, I believed in Santa for a good long while. I did a celebratory fist pump which promptly set my ribs on fire, but my spirits were not dampened. It helped that Beck was there to immediately dose me with more OxyContin. Beck is better than Santa Claus. (He’s just not always as jolly.)

I’m staying in his bunk room for two reasons. One, it doubles as the sick bay for whenever one of the crew is injured or recently returned from an eighteen month long Martian vacation. Two, apparently while I was on said vacation, my bunk room exploded.

Ok, I use the word ‘exploded’ loosely, which I probably shouldn’t given my own and the Hermes’ intimate experience with explosions. But according to Martinez when he visited me for a couple minutes, something’s up with the heating in my and his bunks. I tried to find out more but Beck made him leave because he was “exciting the patient.” All I know is the problem is apparently unfixable.

I bet I can fix it.

But until then me and the doc are roomies. Bunk buds. Johanssen is bunking with Lewis, and Martinez is in Johanssen’s old room. The rest of the crew is probably annoyed that close quarters just got closer, but I’m kinda really digging having a real live human being around at all times. Basically the only time I’m alone is when I take a shit. There’s like, _always someone there_. Beck is _always there_. I can just reach out and touch a human person. I feel like I’m probably in the process of imprinting on him like a baby duckling. Hope he doesn’t mind. He’s already put up with a lot from me in just a day. Around the time my first happy pill kicked in, I kinda sorta started bawling like a baby. I felt like a fucking corpse shitting itself when the muscles relax, like my brain just thought ‘alright, _that’s_ over, time to open the floodgates.’ I told Beck I was just really glad to have finally showered. His cheeks were wet, so I guess he was glad too.

Anyways, now I’m up on my first full day back on the Hermes (!!!!!!!!), and I’m told the first thing on the docket is log entries. My dear sweet log. Commander Lewis stopped by the Party Bunk to tell us that orders have come from on high (or down below) regarding our logs. For some crazy reason it seems that public interest in us is very high, so from now on our logs are going to be uploaded directly to blogging platforms to keep everyone up to date on how awesome we are. So now I’m talking to you, Earthlings! Hello down there! …And the first thing I told you all is that I cried yesterday, jeez. Oh well, I think we’re all good friends at this point.

What I really have to tell you, though, is thank you. God, thank you. To all the people at NASA and the CNSA who worked round the clock against shitty odds and deadlines to come up with a way to rescue me: _thank you_. To all the people who watched and campaigned and kept me in your thoughts: _thank you_. It’s… I would absolutely have died alone on a barren planet if it weren’t for the people of this planet teaming up to bring me home. Which, fun thought, I know, and it would have been cool to be a Martian ghost, but I definitely prefer this outcome. And I am so thankful for it. Humanity saved my life.

Okay, I’m at risk of getting weepy again so I’m going to sign off and go see about the climate control in my and Martinez’s rooms. I’ve got the fixies. And the munchies, oh man, I’m gonna eat me some freeze dried eggs with a gallon of ketchup. And then I’m gonna do a backflip in the core of Hermes, and then I’m gonna go visit my zero-g ferns and tell them daddy’s home. And give Johanssen a noogie and Vogel a hug and Martinez a secret hand shake and Lewis a stern lecture on the horrors of disco. What a good day.

I’ll see you in 210 days, Earthlings. In the meantime, I’ll try to be diligent about my log, and I’ll answer any messages that get sent through the blog.

And, my god, _thank you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this chapter (which goes against the logs-from-Mars theme) as an announcement/promo for my Mark Watney blog on tumblr. Check out ares3watney.tumblr.com for logs starting from Mission Day 688! You can send questions for Mark to answer, too. If anyone is interested in joining the network as a crew member (other than Beck and Johanssen, who are taken), please message me on tumblr! There's such an opportunity for character development during the journey back to Earth, and I'm really excited to have people join in on this.


End file.
